


kill a little time (you can sleep when you're dead)

by girlsarewolves



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Female Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Femslash, Final Girl Femslash, I headcanon them both as bisexual tbh, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Krueger is taking his time and Kris and Nancy are the last two, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, and that's it because I couldn't write smut tonight, as in they kiss and then it's morning and it's heavily implied, horror femslash, if you know the backstory then you know what they're talking about, sex for comfort slash sleep-deprived sex, very vaguely referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You ever wonder, what we'd be like? If, you know. It never happened."</p><p>It's three am, and she's stretched across your bed. Blonde hair splayed out over the dark comforter, left hand on her stomach. Her eyes are open and unfocused and glassy; the smile stretching her lips looks off. </p><p>You sit with your knees tucked under your chin and tell yourself to memorize this scene, every detail. You already know how you'll make the memory look in your sketchpad.</p><p>"No."</p>
            </blockquote>





	kill a little time (you can sleep when you're dead)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheYearOfTheWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYearOfTheWolf/gifts).



> For the prompt, "Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”."
> 
> Warnings for extremely vague references to past child sexual abuse, deaths ruled as suicide, potentially unhealthy behaviors.
> 
> Also I honestly have no idea what this is, it just happened, and I'm okay with that because the world needs more Kris/Nancy (I'm just sorry it's my meager offerings). Feedback is always appreciated! The title comes from 'Where the Lonely Ones Roam' by Digital Daggers (my second fic this week to use that song, what can I say?).

* * *

"You ever wonder, what we'd be like? If, you know. It never happened."  
  
It's three am, and she's stretched across your bed, unlit cigarette between her two forefingers of her right hand. Blonde hair splayed out over the dark comforter, left hand on her stomach. Her eyes are open and unfocused and glassy; the smile stretching her lips looks off.  
  
You sit with your knees tucked under your chin and tell yourself to memorize this scene, every detail. You already know how you'll make the memory look in your sketchpad.  
  
There are mugs everywhere, including two on the bedside table, coffee steaming; not cool enough to drink, you both hoping the smell is enough for the wait.  
  
"No."  
  
The smile looks more natural as it widens. Kris turns her head to look at you, tears slipping from her lower eye. "Liar." She's either about to laugh or cry or both. Too tired, too haunted. It's been weeks since Dean's "suicide", and every time she comes over you know she still hasn't scrubbed the sight of it happening - right in front of her, blood spraying her face - from her memory.  
  
You've thought of suggesting she draw it, like you would; but Kris isn't like you. She doesn't draw - "I don't have any skill with that sort of thing, Nancy," she whispered, once, when you told her that was how you coped. You tried telling her skill has nothing to do with it; it's about getting out it.  
  
To remember.  
  
To forget.  
  
To exorcise.

But what works for you doesn't work for her, so you don't suggest it again. You just try to distract, like always; distracting her helps distract you, too, but you hate how hard it is sometimes. What words to say, the right way to act. The one thing you know is to hide your fear, because fear breeds fear, and it feeds on itself, and the two of you stick together to avoid that, to hide from it and pretend it's not there.

Pretend he's not there.

You remember Kris' question - realize you've lost yourself in your own head again, while Kris just watches you, smiling like she knows this, and at this point she might have you figured out enough to know. You shrug.  
  
"I think I was always going to be this way," you whisper.  
  
Kris pockets the cigarette, saves it for later, saves it for if - for when - she's on her own. Her right hand stretches out, takes yours; you watch the way her fingers lace through yours, and you tell yourself 'draw it, draw it as soon as she leaves, and never lose it'. Her smile is soft and gentle and so tired. "Then I know we'd still be friends."  
  
Pain clenches your chest, and you remember her kissing Jesse Braun like there was no tomorrow - because the past few weeks made it clear there isn't. You remember Quentin asking you out over and over and all the reasons you couldn't or the silent agreements only to no show over and over - until it's too late, and he's gone just like Dean and just like Jesse. The pain spreads, and you remember all the times you spoke to Kris at the diner or passing in school or crossing paths in town, and you look at your hand entwined with hers and remember why you're both awake at three am on a school night.  
  
But you make yourself smile, just a little, and squeeze her hand with yours. And you think to yourself of this other life and of being friends with the person you've loved and wanted most and you tell yourself, 'I could still live with that.'  
  
And maybe you would have been friends. Maybe you'd be the best of friends. Maybe close enough that you'd feel safe confessing to her - maybe not what you feel about her specifically, but about the confusion and then the certainty and all the heaviness that came with both. Maybe she'd even say she understands, and even if she doesn't feel that way about you, you'd not feel so alone.  
  
Maybe you'd be able to let Quentin in. Maybe you could make peace with the longing in the pit of your stomach every time you look at Kris, and focus only on the warm butterflies that Quentin gives you - gave you - whenever he smiles and tries to make you feel included. Maybe you'd be included, be more comfortable in your own skin and therefore with others. Maybe without this baggage, you could accept yourself, connect with others.  
  
Or maybe not, maybe you'd still be a quiet, shy girl. Just not so lonely. Maybe you'd be okay. Happy even. Without that baggage that until recently you didn't even understand the meaning of, maybe you'd stop thinking there was something wrong, and you'd be comfortable with the way you are, because deep down you don't think he did this to you. Just made you always wonder, always question, always worry it was wrong. Damaged. Broken.  
  
This is why you don't wonder what you'd be like.  
  
"There's no point thinking about what ifs. It hurts too much."  
  
"We could always pretend." Kris rolls onto her side and tugs you by the hand, and she grins when you unfold yourself and lay across your bed too. She's at that point where she can't stop grinning and is always on the verge of laughter - and once it comes, it won't stop until she's in tears and her ribs hurt, you know because you've seen it before.  
  
You secretly like this stage, this glimpse of Kris being almost drunkenly silly. Part of you feels guilty; there's a reason you both are pulling another all-nighter, a reason she's so tired she can barely focus and anything could make her double over laughing until it hurts. But maybe it's not so bad; why not take the little pieces you can enjoy and treasure them.  
  
"There. Now, let's just pretend. We're just two dumb teenagers, staying up late because we can, and who cares if we snore in class tomorrow."  
  
"Technically today."  
  
Kris sticks her tongue out at you. She shakes a little, but manages - just barely, you're pretty sure - to hold off from laughing. "Whatever, smartass." She taps the tip of your nose with her finger, left hand, and giggles - only a little, and then she bites her lip to keep it in.  
  
And you find yourself smiling, humored, warm and almost, something like happy. Safe. You know you're the opposite of it. The bed is too comfy, Kris is too close, you're both too tired, it could come at any moment - and then, him. But you can't help it, because the bed is too comfy and Kris is too close and you're both too tired.  
  
"I never actually took part in a sleepover," you confess.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really."  
  
"Well, I'm pretty sure that's what we've been doing the last week." And then she laughs, rolling forward and towards you, her face somehow finding its way to the crook of your neck to muffle her laughter, and you aren't sure why that's so funny, but you don't care because she's close, she's so close, and she's happy, and you're pretending everything is fine and normal and nothing bad has happened to either of you.  
  
And the reflex to pull away, to retreat from physical contact barely flares up and is easy to ignore, shove aside.  
  
It's so late. You're so tired. But you're wide awake now and aware of everything, memorizing every detail of this moment, and you'll be using this in your art for as long as you've got left, you know, and you think, 'This is enough. No one can take this from me.' And you wrap your arms around her and laugh with her.  
  
You don't remember moving to kiss her. You aren't sure it was you who started it - but that's not right, can't be right, it had to be you. But you don't remember doing it, you remember laughing and then her mouth is on yours, and she's laughing into you - and there's nothing better in the world than this feeling. So you kiss her back, and you laugh into her, and you feel like praying that this last forever, that you don't wake your mom, that sleep doesn't come for you, that this just last on into the morning and through the day.  
  
The coffee's gone cold when you come to your senses.  
  
Kris' left arm is draped over you; your head is on her chest. Clothes are half on, half tangled around the two of you.  
  
Every part of you is suddenly on edge - was it a dream, were you actually sleeping, did he do this? Was it real, did you force it? Will she freak, will she push you away? Is she dead? No, no, you hear her heart beating, her chest is rising - with your head on it, just over her right breast - and you make yourself look up at her.  
  
She looks half asleep and half afraid like you. But then she's laughing, and she's crying too, and you kiss her without thinking. And she kisses back and clutches you and presses her forehead to yours. "See? Pretending is fun."  
  
For the first time in a month you don't think of him during breakfast or on the way to school or even during first period. He'll creep back in, and the fear will return, and you and Kris will find each other again and stick together to tough it out, no idea what to do or how to make it end without dying. But you think to yourself, 'I can live with that.'


End file.
